Here You Come Again
by Tom Beaumont
Summary: Derek can't stop remembering what happened to George. Rated T for some surgery images.


_**O Kind Readers:** Thank you for continuing to be supportive, faithful and generous, even when I am less-than-forthcoming as it pertains to new content. I do this all for you (okay, a little bit is for me...y'caught me), so I always appreciate hearing from the people who are still reading my work._

_Yes, I am still around; yes, I want to deliver a lot more new stuff than I do; and yes, I also really like that one story that you wish I'd just finish al-freaking-ready - and I'm right there with you on that particular point, brother (or sister, for that matter).  
_

_So, please enjoy this new piece from my **"Visits from George"** series and know that - at least when it comes to putting out new stories (or even finishing up old ones) - I hope that I am always doing my level best to serve you, my perpetually Kind Readers._

_**Tom**  
_

* * *

**Here You Come Again**

Derek Shepard was a reasonable man. A reasonable doctor. He understood the difference between what was real and what was in his imagination. He had a trace of faith of some larger supernatural entity somewhere in him, he supposed, but mostly what he clung to was science; those real things he could see, he could feel. Things he could catalog, diagnose, treat. It was this science, this understanding of how nerves and tissues and chemicals came together in concert to create the sentient mind, as well as an understanding of his own physical and emotional being - going so far as to practicing surgeries from first incision to last stitch to monitor and maintain his dexterity, stamina and common sense - that made him the neurosurgeon that he was.

So why was he - a reasonable doctor - alone in this operating room again? Why was he still staring into the exposed, injured brain of George O'Malley? It didn't make much sense to him, coming back to this place again and again. Science could explain it – and the first half-dozen times he'd found himself here, it did; a chemical reaction in his brain was causing this. Complex neurotransmitters awaken certain sectors of the brain, activating and stimulating certain memories and emotions - in this case, fear and regret. Any first-year med student knew that.

Not to say that it was pleasant, but it was natural that Derek felt tremendous guilt about O'Malley's death. That he would occasionally feel responsible, even that wasn't unheard of, the hospital shrink said. He knew the two-word term for how he felt before she'd said it, because it was something he'd said to a widow or grandchild or parent many times before.

_Survivor's guilt._

O'Malley died on the table during a complex, one shot-in-a-million surgery. It wasn't Derek's fault. He had done his best. No one – not a soul – could now or would ever blame him for O'Malley not coming out of this alive.

But here he was. **_Again._** In his surgical garb, holding a scalpel, for reasons that escaped him.

The nervous rumbles in the pit of his stomach were there too, regular as clockwork. Being here always felt new and terrifying.

If only he could act fast enough, he could find it, that one thing that he always was sure he was missing. Or maybe it was a mistake that he'd made – or was about to make. Or maybe there was something that he had overlooked, something that at first glance seemed tiny and insignificant, but would have made all the difference.

He could find it. He could. He just needed an extra second or two.

But no matter what he did, he would feel the time twisting away from him. The gray matter would swell, then the monitor would play its awful tone.

Whatever extra time he needed, it never materialized. And then, like some kind of cruel joke, the clock would rewind to the point just a few seconds before...

"Dr. Shepard?"

Derek looked up. He saw O'Malley seated alone in the gallery, shoulders slumped. The younger man was dressed for a trip home after a long day at work. His eyes were tired but still receptive and aware, like he'd just spent two straight days and nights running back and forth from the library to the Pit (or the clinic or patient rooms, for that matter) and back. Derek remembered seeing O'Malley carry that look; it wasn't an uncommon one.

"What are you doing here?" asked Derek.

"Watching," O'Malley replied. "I can go, if you want."

"No," Derek said quickly. "Please stay."

He felt the urge to look down at the body on the operating room table again. When he looked back up, O'Malley had materialized in the room, right near the entrance. "I should ask you what you're doing here," he said. "Why aren't you somewhere else?"

Derek shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I wanted to talk to you." The statement's tone almost sounded like a question.

"I'm honored," O'Malley said brightly. "I don't know why you'd want to talk to me, but it's still an honor."

Derek looked again into O'Malley's brain. The swelling started again. That awful tone. "Dammit," he muttered and looked up, dropping the scalpel on the floor and hearing it hit. The other man was nowhere to be seen.

Then, he heard the man's voice rise from the bruised and battered body that lay on the operating table. "I died again, huh?"

Derek frowned. "Yeah."

"Shame how that keeps happening," O'Malley said, the words passing over puffed and purple lips.

"That's not funny."

"You're right."

Derek felt a twinge of pain behind his eyes as the clock rewound again. "I don't like doing this."

"Doing what?" O'Malley asked.

"This," Derek said, noticing the scalpel had returned to his grasp. "This thing you keep wanting me to do."

"What are you talking about?"

"You," Derek snapped. "You keep showing up and it's got to stop." He turned away from O'Malley's body and flung the scalpel toward an empty corner of the room where it banked off a wall and dropped to the floor.

"Dr. Shepard, I have to come," O'Malley said. "You keep asking for me."

"This is my fault? Really?" Derek asked, his tone thick with disdain.

"It's not about fault," the man on the table replied gently. "I come to those of you who ask for me. That's all."

Derek felt a chill of realization roil through him, just as he noticed the scalpel return to his grip. "You aren't trying to get me to fix you or save you or whatever. Because I try. I try all the time. And I can't."

"No, Dr. Shepard, you can't." O'Malley was now standing next to him. Derek turned to look at the once-again alive and healthy face of the young man who passed away on his operating table. O'Malley cast a sad glance at the the body that once was his, but was now merely lifeless shell in front of them. "I'm dead," he said with a shrug. "Can't be fixed, can't be saved."

"So why are you doing this?"

O'Malley failed to stifle a snort. "Me? I have no demands on anyone's time anymore. If you want to see me all day and all night, I can accommodate you, as you can plainly see."

"I don't ask to see you," Derek shot back.

"Sorry, but we both know that isn't true."

Then he vanished from Derek's sight – and once more, Derek found himself staring into that blasted brain. Listening to the heart monitor, feeling the seconds dropping away to the inevitable conclusion.

"Stop this," Derek cried. "Please."

"Don't you think I want to?" came the reply from the man on the table. "Don't you think I'm tired of this too?"

_The swelling. The tone._

Out of sheer frustration, Derek flung the scalpel into the deep distance, then tore off his surgical mask. He dashed around the table and looked at O'Malley's battered, barely open eyes. "_**Go away! Go away and leave me alone!**_"

"Then stop asking to see me," O'Malley replied.

"I'm not asking to see you!"

"Yes, you are."

"When? When exactly do I ask to see you?"

O'Malley was standing in front of him again, his jaw clenched. "Every time you walk into the library, Dr. Shepard," he said. "Or the Pit. Or the clinic or a patient's room. Hell, every time you see Meredith or Cristina or Bailey, somehow, I pop into your mind. And I don't know why, you don't know why, but there I am. Every. Single. Time." He frowned. "You looked at a ten year old kid's MRI today and you saw something that made you think about me. About my surgery, about my death. You did it six weeks ago when you were about to open the skull of that fifty-three year old mother of five. And on and on and on. And in every one of those thoughts, whether you knew it or not, you asked to see me just one more time. You say you don't ask to see me, but you do...and frankly, I don't know why." O'Malley exhaled with exhaustion. "So tell me. Tell me and maybe this can finally end."

Derek swallowed hard as memories flooded his brain. Memories of that horrible day. Hearing Meredith's pained, fearful cries. Feeling his own terror at losing someone he respected and liked, not just as a student or a doctor, but as a man. Watching a good and promise-filled life slip away through his fingers like water through a sieve. His head fell into his hands as grief overtook him. "I couldn't stop it, okay?" Derek wept. "I couldn't stop it."

"Stop what?" O'Malley asked.

"The swelling, the bleeding," Derek replied. "I just needed...I just needed a few seconds. I could've saved you." He looked at O'Malley's face, which no longer showed a trace of strain, but instead was the picture of peace. Derek felt a hard sob coming and tried to push back against it, but had no success. "No," he said, "I **_should_** have saved you."

O'Malley shook his head. "Dr. Shepard, the only way you could have saved me would have required you being hit by that bus instead of me. I wouldn't want you to make that trade and neither would anyone else."

Derek breathed hard against the tension in his chest. "I know. It's just..."

"Dr. Shepard, I'm okay," O'Malley said firmly, but with a small, mysterious smile. "There's no one to blame here. And no reason for you to carry around some kind of horrible guilt. You did your job. You did it to the absolute best of your abilities. That's all anyone can ask of you." He leaned in closer. "And that_ includes_ you."

"But I can't help feeling this way," Derek replied. "I just can't."

O'Malley's brow furrowed. "If all you want to do is constantly punish yourself for my death, I might as well lay back down and start our fun all over again."

"No, please," Derek whispered. "I can't do it anymore."

"Then say whatever it is you need to say to let yourself off the hook," O'Malley replied. "Because I've already forgiven you."

Derek took a breath and let it out slowly. "You were a good doctor. Not just a good surgeon, a good doctor. You cared when you didn't have to. You spoke truth when patients needed truth, but you listened more than you spoke. And with you finding your calling, I was sure that you were on your way to something greater. It was an honor to know you and to teach you and to watch you becoming..." He looked O'Malley squarely in the eye and felt a small smile come across his face. "**_Becoming._** That's the right word." Tears began to seize him. "I miss you, not just because you were a nice young man and a friendly face in the hospital, or because you were a damn fine student, or because you were a colleague I had grown to admire, even though all those things are true. The thing that really makes me miss you is that I will never see you finally be that great doctor that you were becoming."

At that moment, Derek felt suddenly empty, like he'd been sliced open and poured out. He felt himself crumbling, without a single support to stop the fall.

And then, a pair of hands seized his shoulders. Derek looked up and saw the warmth of O'Malley's expression. "That was...well...**_a lot_**," the other man said softly.

The room began to fill with bright light, like the sun was rising from within it. "Thank you, Dr. Shepard," O'Malley continued with a gracious smile. "These past few years, working with you, learning how to be a surgeon – I couldn't have asked for a better teacher. That you saw me as someone with potential, someone who had it in them to be great, that just blows me away. Please believe me when I say that I'll treasure those words."

"Yes," Derek said. "I believe you."

"You know," O'Malley said, "I looked up to you. And I had harbored the hope that one day, if I'd ever been in a similar position, that I could've been the kind of mentor to someone that you were to me. So, please, whatever you do or wherever you go, keep doing that. There's a lot of good doctors who need help to – as you so eloquently put it – _**become**_."

The light had built to such a brightness that Derek could no longer see. He felt O'Malley embrace him briefly, but with some strength. "Hug your wife for me, and tell her that I'm okay," he heard the other man say, then like someone pulled a switch, the sensation and the light simply disappeared.

Derek's eyes snapped open in the dark. After a moment's adjustment, he turned his head to see Meredith's peacefully sleeping form. He scooted next to her, then pulled her body into his.

This made her stir a little. "Mm," she said. "What's that for?"

He fought with himself for a moment, struggling with whether he should tell her or not. Ultimately, he decided to come clean, but not before muttering a caveat. "Promise me you won't think I'm crazy, Meredith," he said.

"I'll try," she replied.

He took a moment to form the words. "The hug's from George O'Malley," Derek said. "He wants you to know that he's okay."

Meredith pulled out of her husband's embrace. "That's not funny," she snapped, rolling away from him.

Derek laid there in the sudden chill of their bed for a moment, just before catch a glimpse of the clock and realizing it was time to get up. _Last time I ever let a figment of my imagination tell me what to do_, he glowered as he headed for the bathroom.

Meredith, however, stayed under the sheets, her mind racing. _How did Derek know what she'd just dreamed about?_

**The End**


End file.
